Siren
by marine cathedral
Summary: Haruka spies on Michiru as she puts on her makeup. Relatively light-hearted Sailormoon S fluff.


**SIREN**

The doorframe is digging into the corner of my shoulder, sending pressure-induced tingles down my right arm, but I hardly notice. Head cocked to the side, I watch, I puzzle, and I see my reflection frown in the bathroom mirror. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" Michiru asks, in a funny voice. Her lips barely move, pursed in concentration as they are. She's applying goop to her eyelashes, and the bathroom mirror is ringed with condensation from the shower she took not long ago. Come to think of it, I can smell the stuff she uses in the shower, on that big pink pouf thing that hangs from a hook; it's a soft yet pervasive scent, maybe vanilla. It makes me want to catnap in a patch of sunshine, or bury my face in the crook of her neck, maybe.

The tips of my fingers are tingling, now. All ten of them. Hmm.

"That—that stuff. _Mascara_," I emphasize, so she doesn't think I'm a complete Neanderthal. Hey, I have a mother who's just like her, won't leave the house without putting her face on. I shrug, affecting casual curiosity. It's easier than you might think. "Makeup in general."

I see her reflection smile, that secretive little arch. She's painted her lips a pearly pink, now, and I study the Cupid's-bow curve of them, forbidding my mouth to pull upward in echoing response. Cool it, I tell myself sternly.

"I'm an artist," she replies breezily, just as casual as I am, yet somehow completely guileless. That, or she's better at playing it cool than I am. I've been guilty of underestimating her, in the past, and I've told myself every day since then that I won't do her the same disservice, ever again.

It's not that easy, though! Take this, for example: I ask her to dinner, as cool as anything, because people need to eat, right? Even sailor soldiers destined to protect the world against the apocalypse. It should be no surprise that Michiru 1) takes forever in the shower, 2) smells up the whole house with that scent that does the strangest thing to my limbs, 3) hangs a pretty dress outside her closet, 4) waits to change, and puts on her makeup in a short robe, and 5) leaves her bathroom door open, practically inviting me to stick my head inside and chide her about any number of things. How long it takes her to shower. The overwhelming scent of that shower product, which, now that I think about it, is making my toes tingle, too. The length of her robe.

No, it's never a good idea to underestimate her, but the problem with Michiru is that she's tricky. You just never really know what's behind that half-smile.

I regard her as one would regard a dangerous zoo animal that has escaped and is very dangerous. Possibly rabid. Can't be too careful. "Face, canvas, what's the difference?" I say flippantly.

"Exactly," she responds, her tone a little too tame for my liking. Picks up a little compact, embossed with flowing script, and uses a miniature brush to dab some color on her eyelids. Curiosity overwhelms me, and I move closer; it's a beige shade, with a bit of shimmery stuff.

"What is the point of that?" I gesture to the tiny compact. _Eye shadow_, I remind myself. "It's so pale that you can barely see it." I study my own eyelids in the mirror, peering closer, and then I look back to Michiru, comparing.

I don't expect her to be standing so close; I could have sworn we were more than a foot apart. But, here she is. I'm face-to-face with her, and I'm staring deeply into her eyes, completely on accident, mind you. Their color hasn't changed—that complex shade of blue, all the varieties of the ocean's hue on a sunny day—but I'm somehow caught. It's the tiny glittery sparkles, maybe, the beige-y glittery eye shadow. Her eyes need no enhancement, I loyally remind myself, but that faint glitter—and, my god, is her lipstick _scented?_—has me wound as tightly as a coiled spring.

"If you're close enough, you can," she says, and taps me smartly on the nose with her makeup brush. That'll teach me to intrude on her private communion with her bathroom mirror and makeup case. I shake my head and exhale the scent of her lipstick, and retreat to the safety of the living room.

She is my partner. I know every inch of her—I've bandaged her, smoothed salve over her, prodded her lightly perfumed skin for delicate bones, wiped away the blood. I know well that this delicate balance we've established, this abrupt intimacy we've been forced into by fate and our mission, cannot last forever. The last thing we need, at this point, is to befuddle our mission by becoming—involved. But I was involved since the beginning, wasn't I? I also know my limits, and I know I've reached them.

She is a confusing one, my partner. She knows the risks as well as I do, but she is a mystery to me, even now. Still, even though she knows just how to push my buttons, I won't complain. I shake my head, again, and collect my keys, just as she exits the bathroom, more stunning than any daydream of her I could concoct. And, rest assured, I've concocted several. I smile and place a hand at the small of her back, guiding her out the front door and to the car. Beneath the silk of her dress, I feel her shiver, and am glad to know I'm not the only one. _If you're close enough, you can_. An invitation?

Any closer, darling Michiru, and I'd drown.


End file.
